


behold! earthly beauty

by dandeaix



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Early Modern Era, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-06
Updated: 2018-09-06
Packaged: 2019-07-07 19:32:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15914820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dandeaix/pseuds/dandeaix
Summary: Gawain makes a face. “You are bleak.”“And you are a fool,” Niall gibes.It is the 1600s, Gawain is sick. Niall cares for him.





	behold! earthly beauty

**Author's Note:**

> You'd think that a noir AU would be the most fitting historical AU to write, but noooo, I just have to write an English Civil War AU with simmering nationalist rebellions and socio-political undertones.
> 
> Names adapted to fit period + context:
> 
> Gavin → Gawain  
> RK900 → Niall  
> Connor → “Connor” Conchobar  
> Hank → Hankin

“May our Heavenly Father strike you with a lightning bolt to your arse,” says Gawain.

“Your fancies run wild,” says Niall, “fortunately, they are simply that - fancies.”

“If I were to have the plague,” Gawain says, a while later, “I would curse your name from the pits of Hell.”

“If you have the plague, you would already be dead,” Niall retorts, but when he helps Gawain sit up, his grip is firm rather than cruel. “Now cease whining, or I would truly leave you for death, if only for some peace.”

“I blame  _ you  _ for forcing this move into the city,” Gawain continues, ignoring Niall’s irritation. “This miasma would have suffocated me before this cough could.”

“So you would rather wait on _swines_ that claim to be your betters, although they were good only for their birthright and nothing else?”

“I would rather a life as gentry,” Gawain refutes, “but I am well pleased enough with my current life of nightly sins.” He grins to be obnoxious, but his head is spinning and the stretch of his face is so tight that his smile would seem maniacal.

Niall’s face only shows a hint of disgust in the downward slope of his lips. “Must you be so bawdy?”

“Have you any expectations of otherwise?”

“I was hopeful,” Niall replies dryly. He lifts a bowl of some herbal concoction - ol’ Jane’s recipe, Gawain assumes - and holds it up to Gawain’s lips. “Now drink.”

“I want to do this myself.”

“And spill the soup? No: your pride is not worth the price of these herbs.” Niall grabs Gawain by the jaw and tilts his head up; Gawain flails a little, careful to avoid the bowl - the soup  _ is  _ indeed too costly for a man as undeserving as Gawain, and grudgingly, he will admit that he is ashamed to have Niall spend that much coin. 

The soup burns his tongue and scalds his throat as it goes down, such that he only tastes it after he swallows. It is sweet and spicy; Gawain coughs.

Niall holds the bowl away. 

Gawain rubs his mouth. Glances at his palm. No blood, meaning Lady Luck has not granted him consumption. “Have it here: I can finish it.” This time, Niall lets him hold the bowl, although not without cupping his hands under Gawain’s to stabilise the trembles. It takes long, but the soup is finished. He presses his palm between his breasts: it feels as though there is a fiery star burning within his ribs. “Now leave me be and let me sleep.”

Niall nods. He stands without a word; this is how Gawain knows he is not getting much better, which is - which is bad, doubtlessly, but Niall is calm and not distracted and that means he isn't getting worse.

“Do you think that this is my Sin?” Gawain mumbles as he lies down again.

“No,” says Niall, and there is a finality in his voice that shuts down all responses.

Gawain closes his eyes and sleep.

-

He has been sick long enough to recognise his episodes of delirium.

The world blends like a fever dream, stretches of time compressed into the length of a sigh, the swirl in his head slithering into the pain in his ribs, and Gawain lives in the stretches of consciousness.

Niall is talking to the good doctor. “ _ Niles,”  _ the doctor calls him, the vowels short and anglicised, a name adapted to give the guise of belonging.

“He hasn't adapted well to the city,” Niall mutters, in the way he always does, a hypothesis borned from observation and spoken as a question to be affirmed or reputed.

“Gawyn may indeed benefit from a breath of country air,” the doctor agrees quietly, and Gawain stirs at the variation of his name. “But in his current state, he is not much fit for travel.”

“I know.”

“Nevertheless, he is much better. I will pray for him,” the doctor assures. Niall nods, face placid, and Gawain falls asleep again.

When he next wakes, his head is clearer, his sinuses are blocked, and Niall is sitting by candlelight, the open Bible by his arm a pretence for the incendiary letters he write. 

Gawain pushes himself upright in short jerks. He clears his throat. “I should have reported you and see you hanged.”

Niall does not startle. He puts down his “Then who would be paying for your medicine now?” 

“Fie! Were it not for you, I won't be sick.”

“No,” Niall agrees, “you would have been dead.”

“You do not know that.”

“I know enough to know that even if you lived, you would wish yourself dead.”

Gawain makes a face. “You are bleak.”

“And you are a fool,” Niall gibes. He resumes his writing. Gawain stares up at the ceiling, studying the traces of rot in the wood and the dust motes dangling from a post. He does not have the energy to jiggle his knee, so he taps his fingers on his thigh, and when that becomes too restless, shimmies his legs over the edge of the bed.

He grips the wall and shoves himself up.

Gawain subsequently falls over.

“You have been bedridden for two weeks,” Niall reminds over the pained cussing of Gawain, “and consumed no bread throughout: what makes you think that this is a good idea?”

“I have been bedridden for two weeks, of which ten days had seen me asleep,” Gawain snarls, pushing himself up by the elbows, “what makes you think I would like to further remain idle?”

“Patience is essential for recovery.”

“I am  _ weary  _ of patience.” His head is spinning; he props himself up against the wall to prevent from fainting. “This is dull: I would much prefer to work, or recover.”

“I have been seeking a solution for your recovery.”

“And the solution  _ is  _ for me to leave the city, aye?”

“You are unfit for travel.”

“I am aware,” answers Gawain tiredly, “which is as well: I do not mind our present neighbours.”

“I, too, neither appreciate having to resettle into a new town, nor the journey to find one that would be suitable to accommodate us,” Niall agrees, “particularly in consideration of my work.”

Gawain wrinkles his nose. “Your work would see us hanged.”

“I would not let it.” Niall affirms. He finally stands up, his chair scratching sharply as it is pushed back. His steps are firm and measured when he halts beside Gawain, glancing down his nose much akin to an angel. “Have you no faith in me?”

“Faith is why we are at war,” Gawain complains, and Niall snickers. “That, and that our King is a tyrannical foreign fool.”

“Rather a fool than an ironside,” says Niall. Then, abruptly: “I just received news that my brother is dead.”

“Connor is dead?”

“No, he is well in France,” Niall dismisses, “Hankin apparently sends his well wishes.”

“Deception is a sin - write that in.”

“And I will also include that you remain a viperous worm.” Niall finally tucks a hand under Gawain’s left armpit, the other hand gripping Gawain’s right elbow, and hauls Gawain back onto the bed. “No: it is my other brother that had passed away. There has been a famine, see, and one of my brothers has been too starved to survive the voyage over.”

“Ack, that is family: good for nothing but dying.” Niall tucks the blankets too tightly around Gawain - he deserves this. “What, are you to leave me to watch the dust again? I assure you that dust are more like rabbits than children: look away, and instead of dying, they multiply. Truly intriguing.”

“You talk too much for a man so near the brink of death,” Niall snipes, already moving away. “My work is urgent. Entertain yourself: you are not worth the candle.”

“Oh, you jest.” Niall sits back at the table and begins writing. “You wicked - I have been idle two weeks! Two! Are you not frustrated?”

“No,” answers Niall absently. “Carnal lust is a serious sin.”

Gawain wants to scream. He settles for an agonised whimper. “I am already doomed to eternal condemnation - what is one more sin?”

Niall ignores him.

Fine: if this is how it is, then he'll entertain himself rightly as Niall demands. He loosens his breeches, squirming when the material bundles against his hose. His hand is -  _ inadequate,  _ and made more so by the weakness of sickness, but it has also been two weeks of repression after a month of indulgence, and Gawain is nothing if not a creature of habit.

A groan, and he’s done it, he has Niall’s attention: Niall swerves around in great incredulity.

“I have just told you of  _ my brother’s death -  _ have you any pity?”

“Some brothers matter more than others.” Gawain shrugs. “If you have never mentioned him, surely he is unimportant. Were he not dead, would you have cared for him?”

“Blood is blood.” Niall grimaces as Gawain tightens his grip. “You do know that masturbation is a mortal sin? The church maintains it as unnatural and an indulgence of the flesh.”

“... You called me a  _ sodomite. _ ” Masturbation is the lowest offense of sexual deviance, and a man like Gawain has long passed this stage.

“Are you not one?” Niall stares longingly back at his paper. “A sin less is less time spent in Purgatory.”

Gawain snorts. “We have established that I would be going straight to Hell.”

“That you are,” says Niall, “but not me. I am no reprobate, and I refuse to suffer your company even in death. My work now could save  _ thousands,  _ if not more. When I disregard altruistic and patriotic reasons, the contributions of my work could greatly redeem me.”

“Then go be noble yourself - I would make up for my two weeks of abstinence myself.” It is petty, but if Gawain cannot fight or fuck. He would have taken action when healthier, but as he is in poor health, there is not much in the ways of persuasion he can perform. He could try to  _ talk  _ Niall into it, but he does not have the sweetest tongue, nor a mouth less foul. And in such moments of weakness, he would much rather preserve his pride, for what else does a Man at his lowest has except his dignity?

His hands tremble. They fall limp at the slightest distraction. Gawain thumbs at the head, the rough scratch of calluses sending sparks to his groin that is tempered too fast by the numbness of his head, and stifles a frustrated scream.

“Is temporary abstinence that insurmountable a task for you?” Niall is watching him. In the candlelight, his eyes flicker with the dance of the flames: the glow is bright in his clear eyes, looking like fury, like a devil’s gaze from Hell, the disdainful glare of an angel of vengeance.

Gawain’s veins  _ singe _ . 

“You think?” he challenges. 

Niall pushes the chair back again and prowls towards the bed. “I want you to remember, these are _thousands of innocent men’s lives_ you are trading in exchange for the _singular_ pleasure of your _unclean_ flesh.”

“Stop your pretence of morals. You are aware that we both lack them.”

“All right, then. Be selfish.” Niall climbs onto the bed. He straddles Gawain’s thighs, methodically pulling the scratchy blanket back.

Gawain’s dick has gone soft when he's lost concentration.

Niall thins his lips. “Do you even have the energy for this?” 

“Is this not why you are here?”

“Were you to die of sexual exhaustion, I would make sure to inscribe your cause of death across your forehead and parade your debauched corpse around town.”

“Make sure to string up my corpse in the town square,” Gawain snarks, “give me my oft-sought attention.”

Niall shuffles back. He bends down, and then lower still, and begins pressing kisses that turns into bites along the line of Gawain’s hipbone. The drag of chapped lips tickles; Gawain squirms.

“Do you know,” Niall whispers into his skin, “what does  _ la petite mort  _ means?”

“There would be no  _ French  _ in this house -"

“It means a little death,” Niall continues, nosing the hair around his dick, “it refers to the dizzying ecstasy during sexual release.”

“Christ.”

“No talk of another man’s name: Jesus is not the one fucking you, I am.” Niall finally tongues his balls. Gawain lifts his hands, clench them helplessly in the air, and then fists them into the sheets. “That's right,” Niall mutters, “never pull on my hair or I would stop immediately.”

“I detest you.”

“Bold words to say to the man you are fornicating with.” Niall snaps his jaws frightfully close to Gawain’s dick. “Remember that you are under my mercy.”

Gawain’s breath quickens. “Would you prefer I lie?”

“No, that would be unlike you.” Niall finally mouths Gawain’s dick, letting his teeth graze.  _ Christ.  _ Practice has made Niall skilled despite his initial inexperience with the masculine sex; Gawain’s fists tighten. 

Nevertheless, the ease with which Niall picks up on this is nigh alarming. It makes Gawain wonders if intercourse truly differs that vastly across sex - surely there are certain tricks and simulations that are universal: he won't know, his attraction has been and always will be masculine, but Niall has travelled much - voluntarily or not - and perhaps Gawain could ask -

Niall flicks his fingers against his dick, and the pain that swells makes Gawain buckle. “Pay attention to me,” Niall snaps, “you have gone soft.”

Gawain swears a bucket. “Are you trying to make me harden, or make me shrivel?”

“Say more, and I will crush your balls.”

Gawain suddenly feels wide awake. He attempts to scoot away, but Niall immediately grabs his hips and drags him back into place. The jolt of the movement disorients him for a second too long; he bumps his head  _ hard _ against the wall.

“You are a damned cruel rascal,” he groans, “am I not allowed some liberties in my ill health?”

“You are allowed bed rest, not fornication,” Niall accuses. “Should I stop?”

“Stop and I would cut you.”

Niall arches an eyebrow. “You? In this state?” Niall sits up without waiting for a reply. “Forget it: you are clearly unable.”

“Oh, damn your blood.” Gawain flails, trying to prevent Niall from climbing off the bed. It proves ineffective; Niall has a foot to the ground, and the other leg kneeling between Gawain’s thighs. Perhaps Niall is still reluctantly willing to be persuaded. “Would you leave me wanting without the means to satisfy myself?”

“As I should have done from the start.”

“Yet you did not,” Gawain reasons, “so God damn me, but finish what you’ve begun.”

“By saints, you are worse than a whore.” 

“Then you are worse than Saint Benedict’s monks,” Gawain groans, “and your belt as tightly bound as Anne Boleyn’s laces.”

“Say what you want: you are of ill health and ought to rest.”

“ _ Niall.” _

“No.”

“I swear by the Devil that if you do not fuck me right now, I would crawl out of this house and find someone who would.”

“No one would fuck an ill man.”

“Would you like to try?” Gawain provokes. “There all sorts of immoral degenerates on these streets.”

“And then you would have gotten the pox and died an agonising death,” Niall rebutts. He climbs back onto the bed, pushing Gawain flat onto his back. “You truly are a tedious fool.”

Gawain grins. “And yet you indulge me.”

“Not without great reluctance, I assure you.” Niall pushes Gawain’s hair away from his face. “You are a social menace: it is my neighbourly duty to mind you.”

Gawain snorts. “Aye, and what a good man you are, taking ‘love thy neighbour’ to heart.”

“Do not mock me,” Niall growls, and without missing a beat, leans in to kiss him.

Niall’s kisses are always bloody and violent: to rule or be ruled, filled with so much sharp edges and greed that it feels less like kisses and more like a mark of possession. 

Gawain allows himself to hold Niall by the hips, Niall’s knee grinding against the lump of his dick, and there,  _ there.  _ Niall reaches a hand down, fisting Gawain so efficiently that it is almost clinical, but fuck if Gawain does not miss the hot touch of another. He finishes embarrassingly fast, a clench and a buckle as his body arches, and Niall eats away all the shameful noises that escapes as he comes.

Niall breaks away to study Gawain’s face. “You are flushed.”

“Doubtlessly.”

“No - never mind.” Niall’s eyes are bright as he searches Gawain’s face. There is concern. Gawain does not know what to think. Gawain can see his own reflection, a pale and warped image but nevertheless clear.

(It - it makes him feel like a child again, standing lost and alone in the house of mirrors at the funfair, that one day when His Lady grants them coins and an afternoon off in a feat of generosity. His favourite, back then, was this one mirror that duplicates him in various other forms as though he is surrounded by brothers.)

“I used to have a sister. An older one by six years,” Gawain suddenly begins. Niall startles, a quick blink that no one would notice unless they know Niall. “She died of childbirth, and so did her son. Her husband killed himself out of grief. At that point, we have grown apart - my sister and I, I mean. But I mourned her death anyway.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Tell me about your brother,” Gawain says, “who is he?”

Niall hesitates. “I supposed…” Shakes his head vaguely to clear his thoughts. “He is the youngest of us all,” he continues quietly. “Only seventeen, and barely a man. Very silly, yet a hard worker. After he died they threw his body overboard.”

“Huh.”

“Someone should write home, but I am not sure if there is anyone left.” Niall buries his face in the crook of Gawain’s neck. Lets his fingers dance across Gawain’s throat, pressing down on the Adam’s apple; a cough, and a soothing touch that trails to the jugular. “It is a miracle that the news reached me at all.”

Gawain sometimes wishes he is a better person who knows what to say in times like this - other times, he berates himself for daring to acknowledge his flaws. This is one of the former times; he pats Niall once, twice, on the shoulder.

In turn, Niall noses Gawain’s jawline. “You need to shave.”

Gawain may be dense, but he's not  _ that  _ dense as to not realise the non-sequitur as an attempt to change topics. “What, did you not prefer hairy?”

“Not when it looks like there is a whole ecosystem growing on your face.” Niall buries his fingers into Gawain’s beard and  _ pulls.  _ “Revolting.”

“I have been too ill to bother to shave.”

“I can help,” Niall offers, “I shall rip it off your face  _ now _ .”

“Oh Lord, no!”

“It was a jest - to rip off that much hair is no simple task. I can’t do it at any moment as I wish.”

“You are a terrifying man,” Gawain grumbles, shuffling to make himself comfortable as he sinks lower down on the bed. Niall watches him, his shadow a comforting stretch across Gawain; Gawain wonders if he should ask Niall to lie with him, a rare moment of tenderness on quiet nights like this.

But then the moment pass, and Niall is already rolling off the bed. “I need to return to my work,” Niall explains, “you shall rest and recover now.”

Gawain leers. “I believe I would sleep deeply tonight.”

“You had better.” Then, too smoothly for it to be a calculated action, Niall bends down to press a kiss on Gawain’s temple. “Good night.”

Gawain stares. There is something in his throat that makes him want to choke. He coughs to clear it. “What was that for?”

The smile that Niall allows is small and fleeting. “Go to sleep, Gawain.”

Niall sits back at the table, this time piling up some books and other weights to block out the candlelight. Gawain pulls his blanket to his ribs and dreams of mirrors that lead off to new worlds across the oceans.

**Author's Note:**

> DYK!! The name “Connor” is derived from the Irish name “Conchobar,” which means lover of hounds? Someone in the dev team is seriously disappointed at all the wasted potential.
> 
> Funfact #2: "Balls" have been recorded as a slang for testicles since 1508.
> 
> Fact #3: "Fuck" is not recorded to be in use as a one-word-fit-all scenario until the 19th century. Before that, it means "to copulate," and has its first adjectival form recorded in the infamous 15th century manuscript as "fuckin Abbott." This also means that I do not know whether the phrase, "Fuck you," exists in this era, but considering how creative the cussing was (see: Shakespeare), I assume people are more creative.


End file.
